Total pages in book: 19
Estimated words: 17621 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 88(@200wpm)___ 70(@250wpm)___ 59(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 17621 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 88(@200wpm)___ 70(@250wpm)___ 59(@300wpm)
It sounded like a good idea when we were three bottles deep on Saturday night, but in the light of day? Well, let's just say I'm seriously wishing I'd woken up with game-sized holes in my memory yesterday morning.
"Please come, sweetheart."
"I'll be there," I grumble into the phone. "Just tell me where and when."
"We're going to Ember and Onyx tomorrow at seven," she says. "Dennis already made the reservation."
"I'll be there," I promise.
"I can't wait to see you." Mom pauses. "Are you sure everything is okay? You've been distant since the wedding."
"Mom," I say softly, my shoulders slumping. "You know I love Dennis, and I love him for you. He treats you like a queen. I have no objections to this marriage whatsoever. I've just been busy."
My dad died when I was fourteen. Until Mom met Dennis, she was on her own. I do not begrudge her happiness. I'm not upset that she's finally moved on. Truly.
Maybe a tiny part of me wishes it weren't with Dawson's dad, but that's not her fault. It's not like she even knows that I've had a crush on the man since Dennis introduced us over a year ago.
"Okay, sweetheart. I just wanted to make sure. I worry about you."
"I'm fine," I huff, hurrying toward my car.
"Okay. I'll see you tomorrow. I love you."
"Love you too," I murmur, disconnecting before I pop the locks and scurry inside my car. I drop my stuff into the passenger seat and then lean forward, placing my forehead against the steering wheel with a loud groan.
The Universe is conspiring to keep me as close to Dawson Iverson as possible, I'm sure of it.
My phone dings with an incoming text.
I glance over at it, only to groan again. "Speak of the hot devil," I mumble, grabbing it like a freaking kid in a candy store.
Dawson: What's up, Half Pint?
Me: Stop calling me that.
Dawson: No can do, sweetness. It suits you.
I scowl at the phone. I swear, he goes out of his way to annoy me. Why? See previous complaint about the Universe conspiring against me. It's the only explanation. It's not like he's fantasizing about me every night. Oh no. That's my own affliction.
Me: Why are you texting me?
Dawson: Just making sure you're still alive.
Me: I'm alive.
Dawson: Good to know.
Me: …
Dawson: You going to be at dinner tomorrow?
Me: Maybe.
Dawson: You coming alone?
I swear, if this is his way of telling me that he's bringing some supermodel to dinner, I'm crawling through this phone and strangling him with his own jockstrap.
I could probably do it, too. I may be short, but I'm fast.
Me: I don't bring random hookups to family dinner, Dawson.
Dawson: Good. Keep it that way.
"What the crap?" I glare at my phone, my heart thudding against my ribcage. Since when does he get to tell me what to do?
Me: You know what? Scratch that. Maybe I'll bring my hot neighbor. He looks like he'd be down for a good time.
Mr. Daniels may have been hot at some point in his lifetime, but it hasn't been in the last three decades. The man is ninety. Am I telling Dawson that? Hell no, not if he thinks he can tell me what to do.
Dawson: What neighbor?
Me: That's for me to know. Bye.
I toss my phone into my bag, breathing like a masked villain.
"I did not sign up for him to be my brother," I growl at the sky. I'm not really expecting an answer, but an arc of lightning dances through the clouds, thunder rumbling loud enough to make me jump.
I think the Universe just told me to fuck off with my complaints.
Awesome.
I'm halfway home when it starts pouring rain. I make a mad dash for my front door when I pull up, but I'm soaked through before I manage to get the key in the lock.
I don't bother running to the bathroom to change. I just strip in the entryway, my clothes landing with a wet plop on the floor, then crank the heat.
I head straight for the shower, trying to burn away the chill rain and the memory of Dawson trying to tell me what to do. As if he gets a say. I don't ask who he's sleeping with or try to tell him what to do with his life. I don't even want to think about who keeps his bed warm.
I'm guessing whoever it is, she doesn't look like me. I'm short, round, and look closer to eighteen than my actual age. Men who look like him rarely go for women like me. They go for women who grace magazine covers and stalk runways.
"Ugh," I groan, stepping out of the shower to wrap a warm, fuzzy towel around me. I'm too wrapped up in my own thoughts to notice that my bedroom door is standing wide open.